Of Lazy Saturdays
by SirienneHolmes
Summary: Lewis has started staying over at Morse's house after long cases. Some talk about how their friendship functions turns into something completely unexpected. Morse/Lewis.


**Of Lazy Saturdays**

The first he knew of it was a pair of legs crossed in his lap. Morse sighed heavily. "Lewis, you're going to rip my newspaper."

The younger man chuckled, uttered a half-truthful "Sorry, Sir," and lifted his legs so Morse could get the newspaper out from under them. But, of course, he just put his legs in the other man's lap again afterwards.

Morse smiled fondly. "Stubborn. What am I going to do with you?"

Lewis stretched over the side of the settee, yawning loudly. "I learned from the best!"

Morse rolled his eyes and fetched a slim volume from the side table next to him, proceeding to do the crossword on top of Lewis' legs, since his lap was apparently prime residence. "Well, since I am trapped in place, I guess that means you're on coffee duty."

"What, now?" Lewis groaned.

More hummed. "I suppose you can stay for a bit." Cheekily, he tickled the underside of Lewis' foot.

"Oi!" Lewis lifted his foot away from the older man's offending fingers. "If it's going to be like that, I'll just go make coffee!" The young man swung his feet around and got up, heading into Morse's kitchen.

"Milk, two sugars!" Morse called.

Lewis chuckled as he puttered around the kitchen. Morse allowed himself a smile.

They had a semi-regular routine these days. If a long case finished up late on a Friday, Lewis would stay over. At first, it was to avoid disturbing his family, or otherwise incite a row with his wife, but it slowly began to morph into…this. Whatever "this" was. Morse didn't really let himself get hopeful. He knew that he cared deeply for his sergeant, and knew the same was true of Lewis towards him, but he never let himself explore too deeply the depths of his affection for the younger man, afraid of what he might find if he did, and, worse yet, afraid such depth would not be reciprocated.

Morse finished his crossword just as the toaster popped. "For me? You're too kind."

"Nope! The toast is mine! If you want toast, you can make it yourself."

"Whose house is this, Lewis?"

"Who's currently making coffee and toast?"

"Point taken." Morse chuckled. "Some music, then?"

"One of these days, I'll get you to listen to music that _I_ like." Lewis called through as Morse put on some Mozart.

"My house, Lewis!"

"Aye, so yeh keep tellin me." Lewis returned with coffee and toast and took advantage of Morse's usual spot on the settee, smiling at the other man's warmth left there. He stretched his legs out with a grunt. Morse came around and forced down a smile of amusement at the situation.

"Lew-is."

"Sir." Lewis smirked, lifting up his legs so Morse could sit, but back they went into Morse's lap.

"You haven't learned your lesson, that I'm not afraid of feet?" Morse tickled Lewis' foot again.

Lewis laughed, almost spilling the coffee and upending the toast. "I've just made a deduction of my own." He leaned forward to hand Morse his coffee.

Morse took it and sipped it thoughtfully. "Oh?"

"You let me do it," Lewis said, referring to their current seating arrangement, "so you must like it."

Morse nodded, sarcastically impressed. "Well done, Lewis."

"The why is harder," Lewis said thoughtfully, crunching into his toast. (Made with Morse's bread, but the point was moot now.)

Morse dared to lightly massage Lewis' ankle. "We are friends. I hope you know that, at least, Lewis."

"I think this has moved past that word, Sir."

"The Greeks called such a relationship 'platonic'." Morse said reflectively, drinking more of his coffee; some days, Lewis did a better job of making it the way he liked it than he himself did!

"What's that mean?"

"Something more than friendship, but less than a relationship." Morse rested his hand on Lewis' ankle, but the younger man made no objection.

Lewis hummed thoughtfully, drinking his coffee. "And you don't mind?"

"No." Morse smiled fondly at his lap, currently occupied by Lewis' legs. "Do you?"

"Suppose not." Lewis set his plate and mug aside and slumped, stretching, and putting more of his legs in Morse's lap in the process. He slipped his far arm over the arm of the settee, the other one supporting his head. After a moment of silence, where his eyes wandered and Morse yawned, Lewis turned his head back to his superior. "Where does it become crossing a line, Sir?"

"From platonic to romantic, you mean?" Lewis nodded. Morse thought a moment. "Well. Platonic was supposed to be the ultimate friendship. So anything considered romantic, I guess, would "cross the line". Although, I suppose, the absence of sex between two parties is really the determining factor."

"So…I could kiss you? Theoretically."

Morse stared curiously at Lewis. "Theoretically, I suppose, yes."

Lewis curled his legs towards himself and moved forward. It was awkward, taking in the way he'd been sitting, but the lad was graceful in his own way, and soon, they were quite close, sharing breath.

Morse felt his heart race. He'd never been this close to Lewis before, and certainly not eye-to-eye. Lewis was a head taller than he was, at least. He looked into Lewis' gray eyes, afraid to look away, but afraid not to. He swallowed again.

Then, Lewis tilted forward, and their lips touched. It was only for a second, but Morse felt on cloud nine. All of his suppressed feelings for Lewis flooded to the forefront of his mind, so all he could think of was Lewis. His smile, his grace, his patience, his intuition…even the Geordie accent had become music to his ears. Working with Lewis had never been a chore. He always seemed to balance out Morse, becoming whatever he needed at any given moment.

You're in love, Morse, he said to himself as Lewis pulled away; not completely, just slightly. He was smiling, obviously not regretting any of it, his eyes hazy with the same emotions Morse was feeling just now. He seemed to realize Morse's state, for he laughed softly, not to mock, just for joy.

Morse raised his hand and rested it in Lewis' hair. The younger man leaned into the gentle pressure, smiling dopily still.

"I don't know what you're smiling about, sergeant," Morse said, trying to be gruff, but only coming out soft and affectionate. "That was a really poor excuse for a kiss."

Lewis had no time to respond, because Morse was kissing him.

And Lewis had to admit, Morse was really a rather good kisser.


End file.
